un moment de faiblesse
by soisforte
Summary: A moment of weakness: Arthur Kirkland was in Paris for work purposes. Not for love. He was most definitely not here to cheat on his American boyfriend still in London with an alluring French photographer... FrUKUS.


**Warnings:** poorly-written lemons/lemony-like scenes; swearing. Reason for M rating, gaiz. :/

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><p><strong><em>Un moment de faiblesse.<em>**** / A moment of**** weakness****.**

_._

_Un._

At precisely 06h30, Arthur Kirkland's alarm clock goes off.

He gets up, rubs his eyes and yawns, and then goes to the loo. Then he goes to the sink, washes his face, and brushes his teeth clean of the scotch he'd drank last night. He looks at his reflection.

Blinking back at him is a face with "hangover" written all over it. Dark circles lines his eyelids, his cheeks are hollow, his lips chapped and dry. His green eyes are bloodshot and weary, his hair more tangled than a bird's nest, and a bruise is forming on his collarbone. Arthur groans exasperatedly at his reflection, and rubs the purple spot in irritation. _Bugger it._ He's going to get the bastard for that later. The pain is going to bother him all day.

Luckily he can cover it up easily, if he fastens his tie tight enough. And so he does, staring himself down in the mirror as he does so.

When he's done, he puts down his comb and looks into the green eyes in the mirror, those tired green eyes, tired and weary with lack of sleep and alcohol and emotions tangled and struggling against each other. And he thinks about last night.

He's imagining things, he decides. He leaves the flat and takes _le métro_ to work, like he always does, stepping into his workplace at exactly 07h15.

He works for a magazine. A _fashion magazine, _of all things. It isn't by his own choice, but he's started out in the business, and is starting to really earn his way up after several years. And the people, though sometimes obnoxious and annoying, are good to him. He likes it here, and he isn't about to trade a good, steady job for anything else.

"Good morning, " he says politely to his boss, a petite young woman with youthful features, wavy shoulder-length blond hair, and green eyes. She nods back, her bob swaying back and forth, and turns her attention back to the handsome Spanish man who is talking to her eagerly, waving his cup of coffee around. Arthur, after cringing and dodging the cup of scalding hot liquid, scoffs good-naturedly. Antonio is always chatting up the women in the workplace, and is yet oblivious to the attention the women gave him. Well, except for maybe Bella. Bella is a sharp woman, whose green eyes missed nothing. Yes, she wouldn't be so silly to fall over herself over the airhead of a Spaniard.

He sets his things down at his desk, turns on his computer, and is immediately approached by the flamboyant Polish man (woman?) next door to copy some documents. Arthur tries not to laugh at the Pole's ridiculous outfit (a neon pink scarf bright enough to permanently damage one's vision paired with short shorts and purple pinstriped tights is certainly a valid fashion combination) and takes the papers.

The copy room isn't too far from his desk, so it is only a minute later that he sets the papers face-down on the machine. That is when he feels something brush the back of his neck, warm and soft. A kiss.

"Bon matin, lapin," whispers a voice behind him, and Arthur feels his heart jump, hollow and cold in his chest from adrenaline. He feels those arms—_those arms!—_encircle his waist from behind and he arches his back reflexively in response.

_Arthur, what are you doing?_

"Francis," he groans, as the lips trail up his neck to his hair—_which he'd worked so hard to keep it neat, dammit_—to the soft spot behind his ears. "Francis, stop… they'll see us…"

"I turn the lights off, and then no one can see," comes the Frenchman's playful response, and the lights flicker off. So does Arthur's restraint. He pries Francis's arms off him enough so he can turn around and kiss Francis properly. The dark sort of liberates him, in a sense, and he doesn't really care if anyone saw now. They wouldn't be able to see. Arthur can't even see. All he can do is feel.

"You are awfully aggressive today, _cher,_" Francis whispers and Arthur can feel the Frenchman's smile against his own face, feel the high, elegant cheekbones, feel the bristle of the stubble, feel those lips on his. They taste of croissants and butter and coffee. He kisses Francis harder.

Francis reaches up one hand to loosen Arthur's tie, unbutton Arthur's pressed Oxford shirt. Those fingers on his skin. Arthur can't take it. His pants rebels against him with a sudden pressure, and Francis seems to know it. The bloody bastard knows everything about him. Everything that makes Arthur lose control. Everything that makes him burn with something deeper and wilder than mere passion. _God._

He can feel Francis's hand slowly creep down, down, down, past his chest, past his stomach, past his hips, and _god _there isn't even thought anymore, there's just _want. _Want and want and _even more want. _He can never get enough; he can just go through the entire day with his throat and lips dry with longing, eyes closed, chin tilted towards the ceiling as Francis's hair brushes against his throat—

_Bzzzzzzzzzz._

A vibrating mobile. In Arthur's pocket.

Francis draws back, his breath hot on Arthur's neck. "What is that?" he asks breathlessly, his voice thin from lack of oxygen. They're both panting. Arthur is sure they've fogged up the glass on the copy machine; the room is so small.

Arthur removes his hands from Francis's hair—they've been tangled up in the long, blond locks—and fumbles awkwardly for his pocket. He pulls out the mobile and scans the display.

_Alfred._

"Francis, it's him," he whispers hoarsely.

"Answer it then," Francis replies. He's still pressed up against Arthur, trapping the Brit against the wall, and while Arthur can't deny that he doesn't like it, he needs some space to talk to Alfred. He shoves Francis away (_gently_), readjusts his clothes, and composes himself. Then he presses the talk button.

"Hi, Alfred," he says, trying to sound normal. Though he isn't sure what really qualifies as normal at this point. Cranky like he's in a bad mood? Or happy? He's usually happy to talk to Alfred, isn't he?

"Whaaaat?" Alfred asks playfully. "What, you aren't happy to talk to me?" His voice is loud in Arthur's ear. Almost painfully so.

"I'm sort of… occupied right now," says Arthur, slapping Francis's hand away from his chest. "Do you need anything?"

"Just to hear your voice," say Alfred seriously. "I miss you."

The way he says it is so frank, so up-front that Arthur can feel the guilt forming in the pit of his stomach. He turns away from Francis, who is trying to kiss his face again, so he is facing the wall and presses his fingers in his other ear so he can hear better.

"All right," he says. "Okay."

"Are we still on for tonight?" Alfred's voice crackles over the speaker, somehow both familiar but distant at the same time.

"Er… sorry?"

"You know? For dinner." Alfred laughs. "And maybe, maybe Skype-sex?"

Arthur turns a deep shade of red. _Dear God! _"Yes, yes, of course," he says, in a slightly strangled voice. "Right. I'm a bloody idiot, I'm sorry."

Alfred chuckles. "Yes, you are," he says easily on the phone. "But you're _my _bloody idiot."

"All right," Arthur says, cringing, not bothering to tell Alfred off for saying "bloody" in his horrid American accent (it's just… horribly wrong-sounding). "I'll see you then."

"Love ya," says the American, and Arthur presses end.

Francis flicks the lights back on, his blue eyes surveying Arthur with an incredible intensity. "What are you going to do about him?" he asks quietly, blue eyes watching the Brit carefully.

Arthur looks at Francis, those blue eyes, the soft blond hair, those fine cheekbones, the flawless, pale skin, the stubble. The shirt, unbuttoned and askew to reveal chest, those hands with slender fingers and palms. That slim figure. Arthur looks at all the marvel in front of him, the face he's kissed so many times, the hands he's held so many times.

And he looks directly into Francis's eyes and says frankly:

"I don't know."

.

Arthur remembers quite clearly how it all happened.

Paris on the first day was insanely difficult and confusing to navigate, especially since he didn't know a word of French. He'd never bothered to learn to begin with, and so the signs were all foreign to him. They still are, but not so much now. (He recognizes Pont Neuf now, at least. And _le tour Eiffel, _yes. Francis goes on and on about its beauty but Arthur can only think about how magnificent the Big Ben looks all lit up too.)

He was lost then, standing at a random street corner that he can never remember, not even to this day, looking up at the street signs (all in French) and down at his street map (also all in French). And quite honestly, he couldn't make head or tails of either one. The language escaped him, and it does still.

"Excusez-moi," he said to the first passerby, knowing how utterly horrible his accent must've been, "Parlez-vous anglais?"

The man stopped, his dirty blond hair flying around his face. The day was cold, Arthur remembers, cold because, well, it was October (_Octobre, oui_) and he remembers that man had a very cosy-looking white scarf (which to this day he has borrowed countless times) and dark trench coat, rather trendy and mod, not tacky at all. Definitely a designer label, too.

But his face—his face was what really caught Arthur's attention, blue eyes like dark sapphires and a straight, thin nose and sharp, fine cheekbones, like a model's face. (Arthur was in fact surprised when he found out the man wasn't a model at all.) Stubble lined his jaw, and his eyebrows, browner than his hair, arched gracefully over his eyes. Arthur forced himself to breathe, though why he would stop breathing at that moment… hell if he'd known at all, really. He summoned his courage—or whatever—and spoke.

"_Parlez-vous anglais?_ Ple—_s'il vous plaît?_" he corrected himself.

"I speak English," said the man with kind eyes, but his English was accented. "What do you need?"

"I'm, er, looking for—" Arthur frowned and squinted at his papers, holding on to them tightly so they wouldn't blow away in the wind. "The offices of _La Mode?_"

"The magazine _La Mode_?" the man said, looking rather surprised. "Oh, I'm heading there as well." His accent, Arthur noticed then, was peculiar—his English was perfect, but it still had that French inflection. Arthur liked it. Somehow. Even if he really didn't have much of a taste for anything French. But he liked it.

"Oh, well…" Arthur folded his papers neatly (or as neatly as he could) and tucked them inside his own coat. "That would be fantastic if you'd so kindly show me there."

"_Bien sûr_," said the man.

They began walking through the streets, stopping once for coffee (Arthur declined; he was really more of a tea person) and talked a fair bit. Most of it was arguing, really, over little bits and pieces of random titbits—tea versus coffee, for one, then it transformed into whether a cheese tasted yellow or not, and whether English football was any better than French football, and then the credibility of the French military. When they reached the building, Arthur had to stop and whistle for a moment, because the building was all white stone and glassy windows and it was beautiful. Then they went in, and the man departed before Arthur could really say good-bye—but somehow he felt awkward and sad saying good-bye. It was a silly notion, it was, because they were going to be co-workers now, weren't they? And surely Arthur would see him around?

He wasn't wrong on that notion—the man, who Arthur later came to know as Francis Bonnefoy, often came around his cubicle and left little paper cups on his desk, or drew little odd cartoons on his whiteboard. As revenge Arthur often dropped his scones into Francis's lunch (it often had the most agonizing effects on Alfred, as he could remember) or find Francis's secret stash of wine hidden in his office somewhere and take it. It was always a good laugh and bottle of good wine shared, too, though they never got too drunk, considering that, well, they were still in the office. And their supervisor, Bella van Vliet, a friendly but practical woman from Belgium, wasn't the most forgiving of office shenanigans.

Somehow, they also liked to meet for lunch and go out to one of the countless cafes in Paris, where they would make fun of each other. Arthur could never remember what exactly they picked fun of (though he remembered clearly once making fun of French history—"if history is written by the victors, then how does French history exist?"), but he knew that Francis made fun of his (rather thick) eyebrows often. He also knew that Francis liked to come up behind him and cover his eyes, saying "Guess who?" He knew that Francis liked to slip things down his back, too, such as that ice cube during that one week before Christmas.

Christmas was when it really happened.

It wasn't actually Christmas Day; it was only a couple of days before, really. Most of the people had gone to a house party at someone's flat and he was the only one still at the office. Well, himself and the man who ran up behind him, covering his eyes, shouting "Guess who, _soucils_?"

"Argh, Francis," Arthur said, tilting his head back. He lifted the Frenchman's hands off his face and raised one bushy eyebrow, his face twisting into a smile (no matter how hard he tried not to do it). "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you" was the man's frank reply. Arthur felt something jump in his chest—jump out, leaving it feel cold and hollow and excited.

"All right," he said, quickly hitting save on his laptop. "Where are we going?"

"What gave you the impression that we were going somewhere?" asked Francis, and Arthur frowned.

"Just… the way that you acted, I guess," he stammered, and Francis laughed and assured him that yes, they were going to go out to Ludwig's party—adding, with a wink, that there would be some alcohol. That made Arthur very pleased. It'd been so long since he'd had a good drink—the stolen swigs of wine in the office hardly counted—and he hadn't packed any alcohol with him for fear of what might happen if he packed a bottle of liquor in his things again. (There was still a deep purple stain on one of his shirts from that incident.)

After Arthur put his laptop away and dropped the rest of his things off at his flat (he knew that mixing work with alcohol and Christmas probably wouldn't be a good idea), he met up with Francis at the party. Everyone else was having a good time and there was some very relaxed pop-rock song playing that Arthur didn't know the name of. The Frenchman was already drinking a glass of eggnog. Arthur slid into the seat next to him and plucked a bottle of scotch off a nearby coffee table, pouring himself a glass.

"_Bon soir,_" Francis said languidly. Somehow that sent odd little shivers down Arthur's neck, but he ignored them (or tried to) and instead absentmindedly traced patterns on the glass with his thumb.

"So." Arthur looked up to see Francis speaking and looking at him with a very intense look in those blue eyes—God, he wasn't even drunk yet and still, _those eyes_, dark like violet sapphires. Why wasn't Francis a model, just why wasn't he? "How are you this fine evening, Arthur Kirkland?"

His French accent was so very peculiar. But even so, amazing. Sheer amazing. Somehow. Arthur frowned slightly and tossed back part of his drink into his throat, enjoying the pleasant burn, and shrugged to Francis's question. He smiled vaguely at the memory of his first drink of scotch—nearly spewed it back out, he did.

"Why are you smiling… Arthur?" Francis asked slowly.

Arthur swirled the contents of his glass. "…Scotch," he said.

"What about scotch?" asked Francis.

Arthur shrugged. "Just memories. I wasn't very partial to it the first time I had it."

"Neither was I," said Francis. "I'm really more of a wine person."

"As I can tell," Arthur told him, and they both laughed and tossed another gulp of alcohol into their throats.

The night faded into the a blurred memory of tossing back more wine and scotch and drunken singing which turned into dancing which turned into them stumbling on the couch to them stumbling on the curb, cheeks apple-red from the alcohol.

They weren't laughing anymore. They had been, when they were dancing around like bloody fools, but now they were just burning, burning with the alcohol and whatever else was inside them; Arthur could feel it. That incredible warmth—no, it wasn't warm, it was hot, _burning hot, _and Francis was so close, so, so close that Arthur could smell the wine on his breath. They stumbled out into the streets, not knowing why or how, only knowing that they wanted each other, that Arthur bloody fucking _wanted _Francis.

There was a voice, a deep, forceful, German-accented voice and Arthur vaguely recognized it as Ludwig's the stern IT from upstairs who always made Arthur's laptop work again like magic, but the thought drifted away in those blue eyes in front of him—_oh, hell. _His fingers reached for Francis, for the Frenchman's collar, for his face, his hair, his neck...

The German voice spoke again, and suddenly Arthur was stumbling, stumbling into the open door of a silver car, the sign on top glowing and announcing its role as a _taxi parisien._ There was a gentle shove on his back and he fell in, somehow landing on top of Francis and suddenly that warmth was all over Arthur, in his face and hands and chest and between his hips and _he wanted more, _and hell, so did Francis. The Frenchman took his fingers and tangled them into Arthur's hair, and Arthur loved that, revelled in that heat, just those long, slender fingers in his hair, and he can hear Francis murmuring in his ears in French: "_je veux, je veux, je te veux et je te veux maintenant..._ _pour ce soir seulment, pour ce soir..._"

Arthur didn't know what any of that meant. He almost didn't care. He loved the voice, yes, but he loved the mouth even more and then in the middle of it all his mouth found his and Arthur could taste the Frenchman, who tasted like bread and cigarettes and wine and _passion._ He couldn't see anymore, because his vision was blurring and sharpening at the same time, melting into gray and dark gold and a blue so deep it was nearly black.

The taxi drove on.

.

He woke up in a tangle of white Egyptian-cotton sheets, one of the kinds that boasted a really high thread count. He could feel it everywhere. He wasn't wearing any clothes; they were all strewn on the floor, along with other clothes that he didn't own. He recognized his pinstriped blue shirt under the window.

There was a thick blue comforter thrown over them, too. It was plain blue, plain like the rest of the room—decorated in demure wood structure, carved and painted black. Then there were metal lamps and accents everywhere, and a leafy plant in one corner. One wall was painted white, but it was covered with photographs. Big photographs and small photographs, colour and black-and-white and sepia, of all sorts of different things tacked to the wall. There were miniscule holes arranged around the photos too, as if Francis had taken them down and rearranged them many different times.

_Speaking of Francis._

Arthur sat up and looked down towards his left. The Frenchman was sprawled next to him, sleeping peacefully, the scruff on his chin maybe a little bit longer than Arthur remembered from yesterday. He, too, wasn't wearing any clothes, and one hand was curled in a loose fist around the corner of his pillow.

_But yesterday..._ Arthur fell back against the pillows again and looked down at Francis. His head was pounding, yeah, due to how much scotch he'd had last night, but it seemed to soften somehow when he looked at the Frenchman. Like Francis was some kind of cure.

He was going mad. He really was going mad.

He shifted back so that he was lying down on the bed again—the window's view of snow falling in the streets made him shiver like he was outside—and adjusted so that he was lying on his side, looking at Francis.

It was surprising that even though he'd kissed that face so many times, he still marvelled at how amazing Francis's face was. Sharp cheekbones, fair skin, and finely-shaped nose and then there was the soft curve of his dark blond eyelashes on his cheek. Then those eyes... if they'd only open Arthur could snap a mental picture of how beautiful they were, round and sapphire and deep, with emotions and ideas and _something _swirling deep in those irises.

Right on cue, Francis's eyes popped open. "_Bon matin,_" he said immediately, breaking into a slow grin. "_Et joyeux Noël!"_

"Happy Christmas to you, too," Arthur told him, grinning. Francis reached for him and Arthur complied, letting the Frenchman kissing him softly on his mouth, letting the Frenchman run his hands down his shoulders and stomach and skin and it just felt so _good…_

Francis began moving south, trailing his mouth over Arthur's chest and warm skin and then right _there_, and Arthur curled his toes because it was _fantastic _and he couldn't help but gasp and thrust his hips up; it wasn't like there was anything else to do. It just felt _right, _no matter how odd that sounded, having his cock in Francis's mouth, but he pushed those immature thoughts away and just didn't think. There was no need to think, not with Francis gently pushing his legs up and pushing himself inside of Arthur. The initial pain was nothing, he'd already felt the pain, albeit dimly from last night, but what came _after _that…

There was a moment where they were just moving and it felt just _right. _Arthur, though he was indeed a journalist and writer, didn't have much else to describe it. Sex was something beyond words for him. Francis was something beyond words for him—he could spend pages and pages describing the Frenchman and it still wouldn't come close to _Francis. _Because Francis was just Francis. And Arthur loved him that way.

When they were done, Francis made them breakfast—_pain au chocolate _and breakfast tea (which was stronger than Arthur usually made his, but that was all) and jams and jellies and sweet things. Arthur had to admit, it was good. Not much better than his own cooking, not by much, but it was good. Then Arthur left, after one rather lengthy good-bye kiss with tongue at the door and a smile and promise to call.

A promise to call. Arthur laughed merrily at the thought. He'd never promised to actually _ring _anyone up, and while that wasn't weird enough, he promised to call a Frenchman, of all people. So much for the English-French rivalry.

It's only when he gets back at his flat and checks his mobile (which he'd rather stupidly left at his flat) and sees that one blinking message that he realised what he's done.

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><p><strong>Author's note<strong>

Wow. I am shit at writing lemons. Also funny how I wrote this while my week just rained crap on me. It's not exactly happy, but it isn't a tear-jerker either. Hrm.

_Je veux, je veux, je te veux et je te veux maintenant..._ _pour ce soir seulment, pour ce soir... - _I want, I want, I want you and I want you now... Just this night only, for this night...


End file.
